Page 1 of The Pucking Player

1

OFF LIMITS AND OFF BALANCE

LIAM

Icircle the block near Manhattan’s Children’s Hospital for what feels like the hundredth time, silently cursing my ego for insisting on driving the new Tesla today. I could’ve parked in a garage three blocks away, but the icy wind rattling the windows is a pointed reminder that walking even three blocks isn’t an option unless I’m ready to freeze my ass off. Now here I am, crawling through New York traffic like a sucker and glaring at every SUV taking up two spots.

Nate’s already texted me—twice—to say he’s camped out at the Moonbeans next door. The second message was a passive aggressive “Take your time, Captain,” which I’m choosing to ignore.

Finally, I spot a space just big enough to wedge my car between two oversized SUVs. It takes three attempts and a near-panic attack, but I manage. With the car locked and my patience frayed, I jog toward the coffee shop.

As soon as I step through the door, a blessed wave of warmth hits me, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Nate’s at a table in the corner, waving like he’s tryingto flag down a plane. He’s sitting with Jessica—our head of PR and the ever-intimidating daughter of Coach Novak—and a brunette in a navy wool coat who I assume is the journalist.

I clock the line for coffee—an unholy mass of bleary-eyed office workers moving slower than molasses—and head toward the back. Before I can so much as sigh in defeat, Nate calls out loud enough to draw half the café’s attention.

“I’ve got you, Captain!” He grins and gestures to the steaming cup in front of him.

For once, I’m grateful for his over-the-top energy. I give him a quick salute as thanks, my attention briefly snagging on a woman in a camel coat. She’s standing at the counter, her shoulders squared as if she’s preparing for battle while the poor kid behind the register fumbles with her order.

Rookie.

Her posture screams patience, but the way she taps her manicured fingers on the counter tells a different story. There’s something effortlessly polished about her—sleek waves of brown hair, high cheekbones, a scarf that looks so soft, it’s probably made of clouds—and yet, she doesn’t have that icy, untouchable vibe that usually comes with the Manhattan elite.

Interesting.

As I slowly walk over to the table, my attention is glued to her.

“I’m sorry,” the kid stammers, his voice cracking just enough to make the moment cringe-worthy. “Could you, uh…repeat that?”

“Oat milk cappuccino?” She says it like a question, clearly trying not to stress him out more than necessary. “Extra hot, light foam?”

There’s something about her that’s hard to ignore. Maybe it’s the way she stands tall and composed, somehow managing to radiate both confidence and kindness, or the dark waves of hair spilling out from under her cream cashmere beanie.

The kid looks helplessly at the screen, his fingers hovering over the register like he’s attempting to decode the Rosetta Stone. “Oat milk…uh…light foam?”

Before he can combust from sheer panic, a more experienced barista swoops in, shooting the woman an apologetic smile. “I’ve got this, Jake. Oat milk cap, extra hot, light foam coming right up.”

“Thanks,” she says with obvious relief, her tone warm enough to thaw the January air. Then, instead of blowing him off like most impatient Manhattanites would, she leans forward slightly. “First week?”

“First day,” the kid admits, flushing beet red.

She smiles, and I swear it’s like someone turned on a spotlight in the middle of the café. Even from where I’m sitting, I feel the magnetic pull of her easy charm, the way her kindness seems entirely genuine. Without meaning to, I catch myself grinning, completely sucked in by her ability to make what should’ve been an awkward interaction look effortless.

As she steps aside to collect her coffee, I stand frozen next to our table, watching her as if hypnotized.

It’s impulsive—I’ll admit that—but a tiny part of me starts crafting a plan. I could catch her before she heads out, casually ask for her number. Sure, I’ve got a packed schedule today, but I could make time. Call her after practice, arrange a date. It’s been a while since someone’s caught my attention this fast.

But before I can do anything, she’s moving. And not toward the door.

Nope. She’s walking straight toward our table.

What the?—

“Liam,” Jessica says, her grin so wide I know I’m about to get bulldozed. She stands, her tone far too amused. “You remember my sister, Sophie? She’s volunteering in the pediatric wing as part of her pre-med program.”

Sophie.

Jessica’ssisterSophie.

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